


close encounters, seventh kind

by Anonymous



Category: Among Us (Video Game), Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Gen, Indentured Servitude, Late-Stage Capitalism, Vaguely Cyberpunky-flavours, off-camera alien murder, pre-slash if you're so inclined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The spacesuit makes it hard to tell, but Pat's pretty sure Orange is dead.What happens when your spaceship is invaded by killer aliens, but you're honestly kind of okay with it because you were probably never leaving this fucking ship alive anyway, and this way's quicker.(A Polygon/Among Us crossover, but if you're coming from the Among Us tag, you don't need to know anything more than 'there are two guys named Pat and Brian.')
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32
Collections: Anonymous





	close encounters, seventh kind

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I got you something that was going to be a lot fuckier because of the whole tentacle-alien-murder possibilities, but it got real deep on the existential agony of being trapped in a capitalist system until the day you're released by the sweet kiss of death. Feels like the Polygon vid team would approve of this message.
> 
> If your name is in the tags, or you know anyone whose is: hello! This one is actually pretty tame for you to read. Thanks for being interested in fan stuff, and thanks for what you do.

The spacesuit makes it hard to tell, but Pat's pretty sure Orange is dead. There's a stillness to him that reminds Pat of when he'd go into the barn on a winter morning and find the calves frozen solid in the night, back when he used to have a barn, or calves—or a planet, even, before the climate got _too_ fucked; back before he'd got himself shot up into space on a contract designed to keep him here. 

There's also the small matter of White standing over the body, his whole torso unzippered like a grinning mouth.

Pat stares. White—the creature Pat knows as White—stares back, frozen. Its drooling pink tentacles slither back up into its… torso cavity, and the suit closes and seals, not like it covers over the gaping mouth-wound but like it simply _becomes_ suit again. 

"Huh," Pat says.

White stands up straighter, still wary. Which is—which is ironic, considering Pat's not the one doing a _do you wanna know where I got these scars_ bit with his wholeass self. He doesn't do anything, though, and after a few beats, content he's not going to get murked in the cafeteria, Pat walks over to the food dispenser. He keys in the code for a froot pak, feeling White's gaze on his back the whole time.

He goes to one of the tables. Takes off his black helmet with a half-twist, _click_ , and sets it down. Cracks the seal on the pak before he hears White's voice through the comm:

"You're not screaming," White says. "Usually, people scream."

Pat takes a long pull of the synthesized froot while he regards Orange on the floor. God, he misses oranges. "Orange was a dick," he replies, simply. He looks back up at White, who's shifting from foot to foot in an uncanny facsimile of anxiety. "And, honestly, kind of a racist piece of shit. So, thanks."

He can't see White's face, but body language is enough. "You're welcome?" he says, faintly.

Oh, yeah, Orange is definitely dead; the suit can only do so much to hold back the _pitter-pit_ of blood dripping onto the shiny floor. Pat feels a sense of calm knowing, however ends this close encounter of the third kind, he's not the one who's going to have to clean it up. He has that going for him.

"So, what is this?" Pat asks, sitting back on the bench so he's leaning against the table. "Is this like a… kill-all-humans kind of thing, or just the one? Were you gonna eat him?" He raises his eyebrows. "Is it a sex thing?"

White's helmet cocks to the side. Pat continues: "...you can tell me if it's a sex thing."

SIlence, then White's shoulders drop. "It's not… _not_ a sex thing," he mutters.

"Nailed it," Pat says, sucking back the rest of the froot pak.

"Wait," White says, stepping over Orange's crumpled corpse. "Why are you so chill about this?"

"Chill," Pat echoes, feeling his mouth tick up at the side. He shoves his tongue into the gap. "Sick idiolect, man. Been reading up, bro?"

"Don't change the subject," White says. He stops short of Pat, staring down at him. Pat can see his own greasy reflection in the glass of White's helmet. He looks sick. "You're not raising the alarm. Are you one of us? Are you one of _them?"_

"Nope," Pat replies. Whoever the fuck _them_ is or are, the venom in White's tone is enough that Pat knows he wants not one fucking bit to do with it. "One hundred percent organic grass-fed human."

Pat's comm clicks a few times, like White's keying the channel but not saying anything. Eventually, he just asks, plaintive: "Why?"

Pat snorts and props his elbow up on the table behind him. "I fucking hate it here, man," he replies. "Everyone's fucking bullshit all the time, and I'm indentured on a shitty contract I'm not going to get out of until I'm like, fifty, or dead. So honestly, uh, if this is fuckin' it for me, whatever." He gestures to himself. "Tentacle-fuck me to death or get the hell out."

White is silent for, just, a real long time, processing this. Then he jerks his hands up to fumble at the latch on his helmet, pulling it off his head to reveal the plain human-shaped thing inside. His face is younger than Pat's but not _young_ , the eyes deep-set and wild. Dishwater-brown hair frays from a messy bun at the base of his neck. As far as constructs go, it's got verisimilitude.

"What's your name, Black?" White asks, urgently. His voice sounds different not coming through comms.

"Patrick," Pat replies. "What's yours?"

"Brian," White replies in kind. "Uh. Brian David Gilbert."

Pat whistles. "Three first names," he says. "Rookie move. Kinda suspicious."

"Blame my parents," White—Brian—says. His eyes narrow in incredulity, like he can't believe this conversation is happening. "We, I, I used to be human, like you," he continues.

"Wow. Sorry," Pat says. He sucks back the froot pak until it crumples.

"You're… you're really fine with this," Brian mutters. "Are you broken?"

Pat barks out a laugh. "Yeah, probably," he says. "God, man, I don't even fucking care any more. I don't give a shit if you kill everyone on this goddamn space station. None of us are getting released from our contracts until we're dead, so you'd be doing us a kindness." He rolls his shoulders. "Hey, after you do me, can you do Green next? She jammed the door in medbay and blamed me for it." He thinks a moment. "Oh, then go for Red. He's cheating on Blue."

Brian fiddles with his helmet in his hands. "Really? How do you know?"

Pat just smiles.

Brian whistles, low and long. He has great pitch. "Wow. You don't care about anything, huh?"

Pat shrugs and wipes his face. "Not for a long time, kid. Are you gonna do the not-a-sex-murder to me, or what? Think I'd like to close my eyes for it."

Brian's helmet just… melts away, like it never existed, slurping back up into his gloved hands. He drops to his knees before Pat. From this angle, and knowing to look for it, Pat can tell that where Brian's neck disappears into his suit there's no line of separation: like a mermaid's tail, his body goes from human skin to underlayer, accordions a few times, and comes back up as the polymer cotton of the suit.

"How much of you is human," Pat asks, unable to help himself.

Brian's gloves melt away as well, forming the slender hands of a musician. "As much as I need it to be," he says, as he places his hands on Pat's thighs. "Like a mimic."

"Huh," Pat says again.

"Come with me, Patrick," Brian says, looking up at Pat with a fierce expression. "You're the first human I've met in four years who doesn't…" His fingers squeeze Pat's thighs, "...scream, or try to kill me, and there hasn't been anyone else like me since our last team spaced the one who made me, and I'm—I'm so _fucking_ lonely."

Pat considers this.

Brian licks his lips, tries a different tactic: "I can get you out of here."

The look in Brian's eyes is so—human, Pat thinks.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, yeah. Fuck 'em."


End file.
